


Aperitif

by bauble



Series: Amuse-Bouche [2]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Coda, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-16
Updated: 2017-06-16
Packaged: 2018-11-14 17:08:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11212485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bauble/pseuds/bauble
Summary: First coda in Amuse-Bouche universe, in which Eames is a popstar and Arthur is his bodyguard. This story is set right after the end of Amuse-Bouche, before the Epilogue.





	Aperitif

After a thoroughly satisfying steak dinner, they load the plates and silverware into Eames' stainless steel monster of a dishwasher. It and the refrigerator (which has a built-in LCD screen that displays current temperature, ice levels, and the local news) feel almost anachronistic in Eames' home, which is filled with heavy antique furniture, oriental rugs, and even what appear to be deer heads mounted on the walls. Eames had given him a brief tour—but had also been naked at the time—so Arthur doesn't remember much about the house. Maybe anything about the house.

"You hunt?" Arthur asks, startling a bit when he catches dead eyes in his peripheral vision.

"What?" Eames seems confused until he follows Arthur's gaze. "Oh, no, that's been there since—well, I don't know, actually. As long as I can remember."

"You didn't swindle a local lord out of his title and land holdings, did you?" Arthur asks, eying his surroundings with a bit more suspicion. Everything's intricately carved and smells aged—clean, but old.

"Arthur, really," Eames says, chuckling, as if living in a house decorated like the set of an English period drama couldn't be more normal. Then Arthur remembers that Eames has been touring for the past ten years and famous for the past five, so his idea of normal probably isn't anything Arthur would even recognize. It does explain the taxidermic mouse hat, though. "Where are you staying in London?"

Arthur tears his eyes away from the scrolling news headline announcing the year's Michelin Bib Gourmand winners. "At the Excel Novotel."

"That's by the O2 Arena, yes?" At Arthur's nod, Eames frowns slightly. "Rather far, isn't it?"

Arthur shrugs. "It's a decent hotel for what I'm paying, even if the location isn't the best. I got a deal on Priceline."

"Listen to you—a veritable internet bargain hunter already," Eames says fondly as he presses a slightly hesitant kiss to Arthur's cheek. Eames still seems shy about initiating physical affection even after all they've done together, and it's a little strange, but also oddly endearing. When Arthur strokes the small of Eames' back encouragingly, he beams. "Care for some tea?"

"I'd love some," Arthur replies. 

Eames pulls two cups from the cabinet and says, almost casually, "It's gotten to be quite late, hasn't it? Seems like there's hardly a point in you heading back at this hour."

Arthur leans against the counter and raises an eyebrow. "You asking me to stay?"

"Yes."Eames smiles his thousand-watt smile at Arthur again. "As long as you'd like."

* * * * * * 

The upstairs of Eames' house is decorated in the same manner as the downstairs with an unsettling addition: numerous paintings of dour people hanging all over the walls. There's a faint resemblance that ties them to Eames—even the ones in wigs and ruffled collars—so it's probably a fair guess that they're deceased relatives of some sort. All of the eyes seem to follow Arthur as he passes, mouths drawn in disapproving lines.

Unfortunately, the painting display area is not limited to the hallway, as Arthur had hoped. There's a life-size portrait of a stern woman standing beside three young children in very uncomfortable-looking riding outfits. It hangs on the wall directly opposite Eames' four-poster canopied bed, and Arthur feels the woman watching him as he climbs on it. 

Arthur pulls Eames on top of him, successfully blocking her from view, and pushes the painting out of his mind as he settles into kissing Eames. 

They take it more slowly this time, drawing out the process of undressing and savoring the chance to examine each other. Aside from the excellent physical attributes of Eames' mouth, he's a wonderful kisser: the perfect mix of desire to please and confidence. Every now and again, he pulls back a few inches to cup Arthur's jaw and just—look.

"I can't believe you're really here," Eames says, smile crooked but eyes serious. "It almost feels like a dream."

"I could pinch you if you'd like," Arthur says, fingers skimming down Eames' side. "See if you wake up."

Eames shies away from the fingers with a startled laugh. "Thank you for the offer, but if this is a dream, I think I'd like to stay a while longer."

"Mm," Arthur says, fingers drifting up to rest on Eames' bicep. "Ticklish?"

"A bit. Mostly along my sides and my belly," Eames replies, working a thigh between Arthur's legs and letting him grind against it. "And you?"

"The undersides of my arms, the bottoms of my feet, and my waist," Arthur lists off easily. "Now, I'm going to tell you something and you have to promise you won't abuse this knowledge."

"Ooh, secrets," Eames says, practically wriggling in excitement. "I love secrets. Do tell me it's something salacious."

"It's about the tickling. I—well." Even after all these years, it's sometimes hard for Arthur to say. "Maybe I should just show you." Arthur presses the line of his half-hard dick to Eames' leg, then brings Eames' fingertips down to brush against his armpit, squirming almost immediately upon contact. "Tickle me until I say stop."

Eames slants Arthur an amused look but obeys, fingertips ghosting against skin as Arthur begins to laugh helplessly, almost convulsively. Arthur's dick goes from half-hard to fully hard in less than twenty seconds of this, Eames' eyes widening as he looks down and realizes what's happening. By the time Arthur chokes out, "Stop, stop," he's embarrassingly close to the edge of coming, just from the feel of Eames' leg against his cock and Eames' fingers against his armpit.

"Are you…" Eames starts, wonderingly, while Arthur tries to catch his breath.

"Yeah, it's intense. And can be inconvenient," Arthur replies. "It's actually part of why I started wearing so many layers—made it less likely that I'd brush up against something and spring a random boner."

Eames strokes a thumb over Arthur's cheek. "And here I thought you couldn't be any more adorable."

"I prefer devastatingly sexy, but I guess I'll take adorable."

"Adorably, devastatingly sexy," Eames murmurs as he begins to move his hips against Arthur's with more purpose. "Devastatingly, sexily adorable."

"Better," Arthur murmurs as he ruts back. He slides one hand along Eames' back (which is muscular and perfect, just fucking perfect), and the other down the curve of Eames' ass, thumb gliding ever so gently against his hole. Arthur notes the hitch in Eames' breathing at the contact, the way he pauses, as if uncertain whether to move forward for more friction or backwards for more contact. Arthur doesn't go any further, but files away Eames' reaction for the future. 

"I'm glad I'm here, too," Arthur says softly as they begin to move, hips slotting together and Eames' wet cock heavy against his thigh. They move slightly out of sync, never managing to get it exactly right, but it's good nevertheless and Eames continues kissing him sweetly through it.

They come like that, frotting with heavy breaths in between lingering kisses. Afterwards, Arthur dozes while Eames gets up and returns with a warm washcloth to clean them both off. When he gets back into bed, Arthur beckons him over, waiting till the warmth of Eames' body is tucked up against his side before asking, "You have anything to do in the morning?"

Eames snuggles closer, laying his cheek on Arthur's chest. "Aside from making you breakfast, no, no plans."

"Breakfast sounds nice," Arthur murmurs sleepily, kissing the top of Eames' head before dropping off to sleep.

* * * * * * 

Arthur wakes up to the sound of the shower running in the adjoining bathroom and warm sunshine on his skin. He stretches and opens his eyes—

\-- to meet the stern gaze of one of Eames' aristocratic relatives from across the room.

Arthur jerks back on the bed, heart pounding for a few seconds before he realizes: no, Eames did not let a middle-aged woman in to ogle Arthur while he slept, it's just that portrait being creepy even in the bright light of day.

"Good morning," Eames says as he wanders out of the bathroom, rubbing his wet hair with a towel. He's wearing another towel around his waist and nothing else. "Sleep alright?"

"Wonderfully," Arthur says, trying to decide what he's more distracted by: the three little girls staring him down or Eames in a tiny towel. Eames wins. "You?"

"Never better." Eames wanders over to the side of the bed and gives Arthur a kiss on the nose. "Now, would you prefer your morning blowjob or your morning breakfast and coffee first?"

"Hm." Arthur reaches out to tug at Eames' towel until it falls to the ground, "It's a difficult call. What does breakfast entail, exactly?"

"Three eggs, cooked in the manner of your choice." Eames gets onto the bed, eyes visibly darkening when he sees Arthur lick his lips. "And some Cumberland sausage."

"Yes, please," Arthur whispers as he watches Eames' dick begin to fill. He wants to put his mouth around it, feel it grow plump and heavy on his tongue, taste Eames all the way down his throat again.

Eames smiles as he straddles Arthur's knees and puts a palm on his lower abdomen. "Yes to what, exactly? Specificity, my dear." Instead of waiting for an answer, Eames bends down to take all of Arthur's dick in one swallow. Arthur chokes on a breath because: one, it feels fucking fantastic and two, it's impressive as hell.

The corner of Eames' eyes crinkle up in amusement as he begins to suck, eyes locked with Arthur's as he works. Arthur runs his fingers through Eames' hair distractedly, trying not to lose himself in the wet, velvety heat too fast. It's a futile struggle, though, especially with Eames watching, so Arthur squeezes one of Eames' broad shoulders and says, "I'm close, I'm really close."

Instead of backing off, Eames hums, the vibration traveling from the inside of his throat down the length of Arthur's dick, making him shudder and groan. A few seconds later and Arthur's coming, Eames swallowing without missing a beat.

"Shit," Arthur rasps as he watches Eames sit back and swipe the back of his hand over his mouth. "Come here." 

At Arthur's urging, Eames crawls forward on his knees until he's straddling Arthur's shoulders, powerful thighs straining with the effort. "Christ, you're flexible," Arthur says as he stares down Eames' flushed red cock. He brings his arms up to wrap around Eames' legs, stroking his hips, the lines of his tattoos. "You're going to have to feed it to me because I can't—"

"Arthur." Eames reaches out to support himself with one arm against the headboard, closing his other fist around his cock. "I'm not going to last."

"I know," Arthur says, trying to get Eames to move a little closer. "Let me take you there, okay? Let me take care of you."

Eames guides his dick between Arthur's lips, the head so big and slick with precome Arthur can't help but moan at the taste of it. Eames only manages a few shallow thrusts before he's coming, the flavor of him flooding Arthur's mouth, warm and honeyed. Arthur sucks happily, chasing every drop until Eames pulls away, tilting over onto the bed next to him.

Arthur rolls over to kiss Eames, enjoying the mingled tastes of them both. "Thanks."

"And thank _you_ as well," Eames says, smiling. "I do actually have Cumberland sausage, you know. That wasn't meant to be a euphemism."

"I didn't think it was," Arthur says as he pets Eames' heaving chest. "I just happen to like sausage of all kinds."

"Mm, Arthur," Eames says, grinning as Arthur leans in for another kiss. "You are a naughty thing."

* * * * * * 

Breakfast is good, consisting of scrambled eggs and non-euphemistic Cumberland sausage and a fresh pot of coffee. As tempting as it is to linger with Eames, Arthur forces himself to go back to his hotel shortly after noon.

He catches up with email for a few hours before hitting the gym and taking a brief, exploratory walk around the neighborhood, which consists of pretty but otherwise boring docks. 

That evening, he gets a mysterious text message from Eames containing only a less-than sign and a three. When he brings it up during his pre-arranged Skype appointment with Una, she laughs at him for five minutes straight and then tells him it's a sideways heart.

"You gonna sext with him?" she asks. "He seems pretty tech-savvy. You may need to up your game."

"I don't understand sexting," Arthur says. "Can't I buy him something instead?"

"Didn't you say he lives in a mansion out of the board-game Clue?" Una replies. "I don't think a rich, big-time celebrity needs more stuff. I think what he needs is more fun."

"Sexting is fun?" Arthur says doubtfully, looking down at the heart on his phone.

"Sure. It's like sending naked photos—digital foreplay."

"I'm pretty sure Constanza would kill Eames and me both if we started sending naked photos to each other," Arthur says. "Apparently some of the tabloids in London hack celebrity phones on a regular basis."

"Well, that's unsettling," Una comments, pausing a moment to think. "Suggestive photos and texts, then. Stuff that's flirtatious and lets him know what's on your mind, but isn't like, I want your engorged, throbbing manmeat."

"First of all, you should never use the phrase 'engorged, throbbing manmeat' ever again," he says. "Secondly: we have weird conversations sometimes."

"I know." She heaves a huge sigh. "I guess this is what happens when your dad's a hippie sex ed teacher."

* * * * * * 

EAMES ( _sent at 6:48_ ): <3  
ARTHUR ( _sent at 7:15_ ): :0  
ARTHUR ( _sent at 7:16_ ): Oh shit, that's supposed to be a )  
ARTHUR ( _sent at 7:17_ ): I mean a :)  
EAMES ( _sent at 7:18_ ): well, I like ur face either way. ;)  
ARTHUR ( _sent at 7:19_ ): :9  
ARTHUR ( _sent at 7:19_ ): <3

* * * * * * 

London is nice—filled with old buildings and parks and lots of rain. It takes a few weeks to find an apartment; the first week they tour beautiful spaces with rent amounts containing so many digits Arthur nearly keels over while Eames and his real estate agent discuss the beautiful crown molding. It isn't until sometime in the second week that Arthur realizes he needs to call Cobb; Eames apparently lives in an alternate reality where crown moldings are an excellent investment and money grows on trees.

With Cobb's help, Arthur finds a nice, furnished apartment near Charing Cross the size of a matchbox. Eames comes by the day after Arthur moves in with a bottle of red wine that's probably worth more than everything Arthur owns put together. They eat, drink, and celebrate with sloppy blowjobs on the hideous brown couch that came with the place.

A week after, training for Arthur's job at Browning-Morrow starts. Arthur's doing a fairly standard 9-5 for the duration of the training, but Eames has started recording his new album, which involves spending long, somewhat unpredictable hours at the studio. He does, however, offer to give Arthur a tour the next time they're on the phone together.

"If you come by, I can show you all the intricacies that go into recording sounds and noises you have no interest in listening to," Eames says.

Arthur laughs. "I like some of it. Sort of. Your music's growing on me."

"That is precisely the type of lukewarm sentiment I live for," Eames replies while Arthur continues to laugh.

Arthur usually spends weekends at Eames' house because it makes the security situation easier (having two guards waiting on the other side of the bedroom door in his apartment is a slightly surreal role reversal). He doesn't mind for the most part; he's gotten used to the weird bear rugs and deer heads, and it's not as if Arthur's apartment reflects any of his own tastes either. There's just one thing—

"So that portrait over there," Arthur starts one night while they're lying in bed together.

"Hm?" Eames raises his head off Arthur's chest to peer at the wall. "Oh, yes. One of my great-great-grandmothers and her triplets. Two died as infants, so only the one in the middle is based off a real child."

After a moment, Arthur says, "That is possibly the most disturbing thing I've ever heard in my entire life. Ghost children are staring at my cock and balls."

"Your prick and balls are absolutely lovely, and if Laetitia and Gwladys were alive today, I'm sure they'd agree." Eames pauses. "Alright, I see your point."

Arthur laughs. "Exactly how long has that painting been there?"

"Before I was born, I think. I spent the odd summer here when I was growing up, and officially moved in when I finished University. Of course, I started touring shortly after that, so it's rare for me to be at home for more than a few months at a time." Eames cocks his head to one side. "My god, it's been nearly a decade. Perhaps it is time for a change." He sits up and goes to the far end of the bed, pulling the canopy curtains shut—effectively blocking the painting from view. "Better?"

Arthur smiles. "Much."

The next time Arthur visits, the painting is gone, and so are all the mounted deer heads.

* * * * * * 

They go to see a show in West End—a musical. Arthur agrees because it's clear that Eames really wants him to go, and probably harbors a secret hope that the live theater and dancing will lure Arthur into enjoying the music as well. Arthur gives it a shot because he's not one to rule out anything without at least a trial run, even if privately he's pretty sure it's a lost cause. He doesn't mention to Eames that he's slept through every single movie musical he's ever watched--to the great dismay of many a boyfriend, sister, and date.

The show ends up being moderately entertaining, but all the key emotional moments are expressed in song rather than dialogue. They've got great seats so it's easy to appreciate the costumes, finely crafted set, and dance numbers, and Arthur tries to focus on those things while he waits for the songs to be over.

Eames seems captivated by the musical performances, eyes aglow with emotion. Arthur looks over at him whenever the show starts to bore and smiles, reminding himself that the musical's not really why he's here anyway.

During the intermission, Arthur says, "You could do that."

Eames raises an eyebrow. "Pardon?"

"You could sing and dance on one of these stages. Play the Phantom."

"Really?" Eames glances over at the stage. "Well, I hardly have any acting experience."

"So you take classes, you practice, and you train." Arthur shrugs. "You learn how and then you do it."

Eames turns to look at Arthur, eyes wide and thoughtful. "You really mean it, don't you?"

"Of course." Arthur takes Eames' hand in his. "You can do anything."

That smile that lights up Eames' face is dazzling.

* * * * * * 

_96.8 Capital FM - Early Mornings with Sandra transcript excerpt:_  
SANDRA: You are one of the most eligible bachelors in all of England according to the list that was printed in--

EAMES: Oh good lord, a list!

SANDRA: A list indeed, yes, very authoritative, you know. Next to Wikipedia and anonymous sources online--

EAMES: You know if it's on the internet, it must be true.

SANDRA: Yes, precisely. ( _SANDRA laughs._ ) So what's an eligible bachelor--a wealthy, handsome--

EAMES: Why thank you.

SANDRA: --exceedingly charismatic bloke like yourself doing, still single? Or have you been holding out on the world? What's the scoop on your love life?

EAMES: It's--well, I wouldn't describe it as as _holding out_ , per se--

SANDRA: Merely commonplace evasiveness, I'd wager.

EAMES: ( _laughter_ ) Sandra, you're killing me!

SANDRA: Come on, give me something--the _mystery_ is killing me and my listeners!

EAMES: Alright, there is someone I fancy rather a lot. ( _EAMES chuckles_ ). It's a little embarrassing, actually. I feel like a teenager again, giddy with my first crush.

SANDRA: Are you blushing? You are, aren't you! Do they know how taken you are with them?

EAMES: Mm, yes and no. We've been seeing each other a few weeks now, so obviously they know to some extent. But if they knew how often I thought of them or spoke of them, I'm afraid they'd run screaming back to America.

SANDRA: An American, then?

EAMES: I can neither confirm nor deny--

SANDRA: So wily, this one! How'd you meet?

EAMES: I can't say without giving it away, I'm afraid. It is terribly romantic, though—an excellent story.

SANDRA: You are the world's worst tease. 

EAMES: I don't mean to be, I promise.

SANDRA: He's batting his eyes at me as if that will make it all better. The worst part about it is that it's working. It's absolutely working, because you, sir, are far too charming for your own good.

EAMES: You flatter me, Sandra. 

SANDRA: Are they famous? Did you go chatting up some fit American celebrity?

EAMES: They're gorgeous, really well fit—but as to the rest, I couldn't say.

SANDRA: And there you have it, lads and ladies. The heart of England's most eligible bachelor has been taken off the market by some scamp from the US of A. Tune in after the break to hear a clip, fresh from the studio, of what Eames has been working on for his untitled new album.

* * * * * * 

Arthur agrees to try out the opera because Eames has tickets for a private box and Mal had to cancel at the last moment on account of a doctor's appointment. It's a matinee showing, which means Arthur should be wide awake on a Saturday afternoon, but he'd severely underestimated the soporific effects of listening to people bellowing their feelings in a language he only somewhat understands. Eames is enthralled and Arthur tries, he honestly does, but between the cushy velvet seats, the darkened auditorium, and the monotonous singing, he's lost the game to sleep before he even began playing.

He's startled awake when he feels something heavy and warm on his knee. He blinks hard, then glances over at Eames, who is still watching the stage in rapt fascination. Eames' hand, however, slides up Arthur's thigh to cup his groin, and Arthur is briefly shocked before he remembers they're sitting alone in their own balcony. It even comes with a private room with more seating, champagne, and closets for their coats. 

Arthur stares down blankly as those fingers deftly undo his zipper. Eames doesn't look over, and still seems to be watching the opera. After a moment, Arthur leans back and relaxes into the touch, undoing his belt buckle to make things easier. When Eames slips through the slit in Arthur's briefs to palm his dick, Arthur sighs and spreads his legs.

Arthur's never been one for public sex—always seemed like too high-risk to be worth it—but in the privacy of their balcony, with the guard-rail and the darkness blocking everything from view, he can relax enough to let go. To sigh quietly when Eames' clever fingers begin jerking him in earnest, to let his eyes shut and his head fall back as he comes into Eames' waiting hand.

When Arthur opens his eyes, Eames still isn't looking at him. He is, however, licking Arthur's come right off his fingers. 

Arthur takes a few moments to zip himself back up and put his clothing to rights. He's much more alert now, and patiently waits out the last few songs before the intermission starts.

"Coat room, pants off, now," Arthur says while Eames grins mischievously back at him.

The second act of the opera has them both a little sleepy, but at least Arthur's got the taste of Eames on his tongue to keep him occupied.

* * * * * * 

"I bought condoms today," Eames says, and Arthur looks up from his duck confit. They're eating in the closed off back of a Michelin three-star restaurant, Eames' bodyguards (including Flowers) at the far end of the room, conversing quietly and eating. Eames is staring determinedly down at this plate, his voice low. "They're ribbed and come, ah, highly recommended."

"Mal likes them, huh?" Arthur says. He's had boyfriends in the past who weren't wild about anything anal, and aside from their first day together, Eames hadn't exhibited any signs of interest in taking their sexual activities in that direction. Arthur's not too picky about the specifics of what they do as long as there are orgasms and Eames' dick involved, so he's been mostly content with the status quo.

Arthur supposes this is Eames broaching the topic in his own roundabout way—despite the growing comfort between them, Eames' occasional bouts of shyness haven't faded. Luckily for Arthur, there are only so many condom-related conclusions to draw here, unless Eames has a secret passion for water balloon fights.

"She did, yes," Eames says, pinking further. 

"So you want to…" Arthur trails off, hoping Eames will jump in with more helpful details.

"Only if you do!" Eames replies, digging into his steak tartare with too much enthusiasm to be fully genuine. "We don't have to. I am very happy with how things are going at the moment. Overjoyed, in fact. I merely thought, perhaps. Well, you know."

"Sure, yeah," Arthur says, not entirely sure what he's agreeing to. He tries to remember when the last time he used the bathroom was; he had a big lunch. "I'm game if you are."

"Wonderful," Eames says, sounding relieved. 

He starts talking about a producer he's working with, leaving the condoms and what they may or may not be doing tonight resolutely behind. Arthur shrugs mentally and lets it go. Hopefully, Eames will do something helpful like get on his hands and knees, or tell Arthur to lay back and spread his legs. Those would be pretty clear clues.

Over Eames' shoulder, Flowers winks and gives Arthur a thumbs up.

* * * * * * 

When they get back to the house, a package of condoms and bottle of lube are sitting on the nightstand. Arthur waits for Eames to say something like, _I want to fuck you_ or _I want you to fuck me_ , but all he does is get on the bed and beckon Arthur over.

They make out for a while, lying on their sides after they get their clothes off. It's good, it's relaxing, and it's confusing as hell since Arthur's not sure whether to be ready for entry (don't get too excited, try to pace yourself) or ready to be pounded into the mattress (proceed full-steam ahead). Eames makes no clear moves either way and finally Arthur pulls back. "So you want to…?"

"Absolutely, yes I do," Eames says, eyes bright as he lies there like a lump. A sexy, thoroughly unhelpful lump.

Arthur moves for the condoms and the lube, but when Eames continues to do nothing, is forced to finally stop and sigh. "Okay, you're going to have to help me out here. Am I topping, or are you?"

Eames' eyes widen almost comically. "I, ah, well, I mean—if you wouldn't mind, that is—if you'd be so kind as to—"

"Eames." Arthur reaches out to cup his jaw. "Are you okay?"

"I—" His gaze cuts away from Arthur as he lets out a small puff of breath. "It's been a while since I last—that is to say, years. Quite a few of them, in fact."

Arthur strokes his cheek, feeling the rough texture of his 5 o'clock shadow over surprisingly soft skin. "You don't sleep with people until you get to know them. And before that, you were with Solange, right?"

"Perhaps she'd have been open to this sort of thing, but it never seemed necessary," Eames says. "After her, there hasn’t been anybody that I've wanted to—well. Do this with."

"So you're like a virgin, is what you're saying," Arthur deadpans.

Eames lets out a startled laugh. "Yes, exactly. Touched for the very first time."

Arthur smiles as he looks down at Eames, with his crooked teeth and the deep furrows in his forehead and the creases around his eyes. He's wonderful, he's bashful, he's handsome—he's so many things Arthur never knew he wanted. "I don't know any more of the lyrics."

"I'm impressed that you knew it was a song." Eames turns his face to kiss Arthur's palm.

"We'll take it slow, okay?" Arthur says, leaning forward to brush Eames' lips with his own. Beneath him, Eames nods slightly.

Arthur runs his thumbs up Eames' inner thighs, feeling the tension strumming beneath the surface as his legs spread. He bends down to kiss Eames' half-hard cock, his balls, his perineum. Eames smells as good as he always does—musky but clean, heady. Arthur takes a deep breath before pulling back to meet Eames' eyes again. "Do you want me to eat you out? Finger you?"

"A few fingers to start." Eames strokes Arthur's neck, his ear. "But I'd like to see you, I think."

"Such a romantic," Arthur murmurs as he drizzles lube on his fingers.

"You're—" Eames halts, and Arthur looks up at him quizzically. "You're one of the most beautiful men I've ever met. I don’t know if I've told you that before."

Arthur blinks and looks down at his fingers—there's more than enough lube by now. "That's—no. I don't think you've ever told me that."

"I know it sounds cheesy, but it's not a line," Eames says as he takes Arthur's fingers and guides them to his entrance. "After all, I've already gotten you into bed, so it's not as if I need lies or flattery anymore."

Arthur smiles as he presses his index finger in slowly. Eames tenses and Arthur touches his stomach, begins rubbing in soothing circles. "You may have gotten me here, but what's going to keep me coming back?"

"My—my sparkling wit," Eames says, belly jumping underneath Arthur's hand. "My access to designer menswear."

"The free clothing is a perk," Arthur says thoughtfully, moving his fingertip around experimentally until Eames gasps. "I guess maybe I'll stick around."

Eames spreads his legs wider as Arthur adds a second finger. "Knew you'd see it, ah, my way."

"Mm." Arthur keeps it gentle, curling and uncurling his fingers as Eames' breathing grows heavier, his dick hardens and curves back, precome smearing across the lines of his abdomen. When he graduates to pumping in and out, Eames bites his lip and groans. "You want to come like this, baby? You want me to suck you off?"

"Yes. No. I don't—" Eames reaches down to roll his balls and fuck if all Arthur wants to do is shove his face down there and join him. But the view of Eames' sculpted body twisting and straining on the bed—this is good too. "Another finger and then I'll decide. Just don't—don't stop."

"You look so good like this," Arthur says as he drizzles more lube and then presses inward again, to where it's hot and so, so tight. He suddenly realizes that all this will be clutching around his cock soon, clenching and milking him dry, and the thought makes him a little dizzy.

"Oh my god." Eames moans as Arthur begins to stroke inside, eyes fluttering shut and back arching. "That's—yes—there, right there—"

"Fuck, Eames," Arthur rasps, watching him writhe and moan. "You make me want to come just watching you."

"Your prick." Eames reaches out blindly for a condom and tears the package open with his teeth. "Do it now."

Arthur withdraws and puts on the condom, hands a little unsteady with the weight of Eames's gaze. Arthur lifts Eames' legs in the air and kisses the back of each knee as he lines himself up, waiting for Eames to meet his eyes before saying, "Okay?"

"Yes," Eames whispers, lips parted and eyes open. "Yes."

Arthur pushes in carefully, pausing when just the head is inside, waiting for the discomfort on Eames' face to dissipate before he goes further. It's good, it's so good, and Arthur almost can't believe he went without it for this long—what the fuck was he thinking? It's amazing, addictive, this feeling of being inside Eames, of feeling Eames beneath him and all around him. 

Arthur closes his eyes, forehead coming to rest on the center of Eames' chest, sucking deep breaths through his nostrils so he doesn't lose control in two thrusts. "It's alright, darling," Eames murmurs as he runs his fingers through Arthur's hair. "It's alright."

Arthur raises his head and opens his eyes, nodding once. Eames' hands clutch at his shoulders as Arthur experiments with the angle, and when Eames groans and digs in with his fingernails, Arthur knows he's found it. He hikes one of Eames' legs up further in the air so he can wrap a hand around Eames' dick and continue thrusting.

"Oh my god," Eames moans, the tendons of his neck straining as he tosses his head back, eyes fluttering shut. "There, Arthur, that's so—you're so—"

Arthur picks up speed minutely—it's difficult, focusing on his hips and jerking Eames off at the same time—but it seems to be enough. Eames is gasping incoherent babble and Arthur's name, lost in pleasure and no longer shy, no longer hesitant. 

Arthur thrusts and works Eames' cock until he shouts and clenches down like a motherfucking _vise_ on Arthur's dick. Between the sounds of Eames' orgasm and the grip of him, Arthur's done for, managing a few ragged thrusts before he comes, too.

When Arthur opens his eyes, he discovers that his face is mashed to Eames' chest again, body slumped in a way that cannot be comfortable for Eames. Arthur lifts his head and Eames leans forward to rain kisses all over his face, whispering things like, "You're amazing," and "you made me feel so good, Arthur," and, "you make me so happy." Arthur lets himself sag again, basking in their closeness while Eames pets his hair and soothes him.

Eventually, Arthur cobbles enough brain cells together to sit up. Eames sits up also, helping to take the condom off before getting up to throw it out. He returns with a warm washcloth and Arthur offers him a sleepy smile. After Eames is done wiping Arthur down, he pulls up the covers and flings a heavy arm over Arthur's waist.

"Thanks," Arthur says as they exchange a drowsy kiss, "for trusting me."

"And thank you for your patience," Eames replies, voice low. "I know I can be a bit—oblique when it comes to matters in the bedroom. It probably seems odd considering what I sing about and how I act onstage, but this isn't a show or a persona, and I can't—I don't want to hide behind a mask with you."

"You don't have to be scared of telling me what you want," Arthur says. "All I want is you. Not some guy onstage, performing for me every night."

* * * * * * 

The next morning, Arthur wakes up to Eames' mouth on his dick and absolutely everything right in the world.

Once he's returned the favor, they flop back on the bed to catch their breath. Arthur props himself up on one arm to admire Eames' pecs and ruffle the light hair that's starting to grow in.

"I should warn you," Eames says, "odds are rather high that I'll be writing about you in the near future." 

"It's gonna be about how I'm a stallion in bed, right?" Arthur yawns and lays his head down on Eames' chest contentedly.

"But of course." Eames chuckles, and Arthur can feel the rumble as much as hear it. "I may also be, ah, writing about my feelings. For you."

Arthur opens one eye. "You've already started, haven't you?"

Eames looks down at Arthur with wide eyes, trying to appear innocent. " _Moi_?"

"That coy look may work on star-struck interviewers, but it's not going to work on me," Arthur says, tweaking Eames' nose and laughing at the resulting indignant expression. "It's fine. Write whatever you want, sing whatever you want. But if there's something you really want to tell me, you should probably say it directly because I might not get it from the song."

"You mean I shouldn't attempt to woo you with further impromptu acapella serenades?" Eames replies, eyes crinkling at the corners. 

"Is that what you were trying to do at the tour kickoff party?" Arthur furrows his brow. "Woo me?"

"This may shock you, but all my previous attempts to curry romantic favor with song were met with very warm receptions." Eames' hand comes down to pet Arthur's hair. "Of course, then you had to go and bollocks up my perfect record."

"Well, I guess this can still be considered a success," Arthur says agreeably. "You got me in the end, right?"

Eames' hand stills for a moment before resuming. "Yes, I suppose I did."

Arthur closes his eyes, ready to doze off again when Eames says, "It's good, what we have—don't you think?"

"Yeah," Arthur says, rousing himself a bit. "This is nice."

"I hope you won't consider this too forward oor too early, but I should very much like to see you exclusively, Arthur. To be—together. As more than consistent weekend dates. What do you think?"

_My boyfriend, Eames_ , Arthur tests out in his mind. _My partner, Eames_. "I think," Arthur starts, sitting up so he can look at Eames, see his beautiful, thoughtful face, "I think I'd like that."

* * * * * * 

At work, the training's coming to an end. Arthur's being sent out to shadow other guards in the field more often, and even if there's nothing he hasn't seen before, it's good to get some informal contact with the clients—mostly businessmen and politicians. By and large, they're somber old men who aren't rude, exactly, but also aren't used to not getting what they want. Arthur supposes they're not that different from most of the other clients he's dealt with.

Browning assures him that the extensive training isn't a reflection of his confidence in Arthur's skill, but more of a way to ensure uniformity across the entire firm. "We like things done a certain way at this company," Browning explains. "And clients value things like consistency and reliability."

Fair enough, Arthur thinks. It's been pretty boring so far, but as long as he eventually gets to go out and do some real work, he's not complaining.

There's only one problem looming on the horizon that Arthur can see, which is this: while he's friendly with most of his coworkers, he hasn't managed to make any actual allies within the firm yet. He suspects it's largely due to the fact that he keeps declining invitations to go out and socialize after the workday's over. It's hard to join in conversations when everyone's talking about the hilarious thing that happened at the pub yesterday night--which, of course, he was not there to witness.

Arthur's not naïve; before he was a freelancing bodyguard, he was a commissioned officer, and if there's one thing the military taught him it's that politics are as important as working hard when it comes to opportunities for advancement. He needs to be doing more in his new job, especially in the first year, but it's difficult to remember that when Eames asks if he wants to go to a new restaurant that just opened, or if he'd like to see the new non-musical play that's been getting glowing reviews. It's hard to say no when Eames' purr across the phone is, itself, a dirty promise. 

_Next week I'll go_ , Arthur always thinks when Redding and Pinkerton and Hull all head off for a drink. _Next week I'll explain to Eames._

* * * * * * 

"The Grammy's are coming up," Eames says one night while they're lying in bed together, sated and sleepy. "Less than two months away."

"They're going to be out in LA, right?" Arthur says. "You gonna be flying Stateside to get started on rehearsals?"

"Yeah, in a few weeks. Once I've pinned down most of the choreography and run it all past Constanza." Eames fiddles with Arthur's hand, turning it over and stroking the lines and grooves. "I was actually wondering if you might be interested in flying out and being—being my date. I'm afraid I shall be rather busy all evening, what with the performance, but I'd really love it if—well, I'd love to share the night with you."

"Eames," Arthur says, touched. "I'd love to. I'll have to request time off from work, but Browning likes my celebrity connections so I think it'll be fine. I wouldn't be able to stay long, and I don't have anything to wear—"

"We can schedule you an appointment on Savile Row," Eames says immediately. "I can cover all your expenses for the suit, and the flight, and you can stay in my hotel—"

"You don't need to—"

"I just really want you to be there." Eames tips his face forward until his forehead's resting against Arthur's. "It's selfish of me to ask you to fly to another country for a night, which is why I'm offering."

"Well, it's not like I get nothing out of attending a glitzy awards show," Arthur replies, grinning. "Always thought I'd be working if I ever got to attend, though, not walking down the red carpet."

"You will be magnificent," Eames promises. "The handsomest one there. People will be wanking to your red carpet footage for months to come."

Arthur laughs as he tugs Eames in for a kiss. "I love how good you are for my ego."

"And you for mine, my dear," Eames replies. "And you for mine."

 

fin


End file.
